Chapter 5: The Storm Within
The laughter lingered in Harrowhill's streets long after Tara's tale ended. It was hesitant at first, like an old song remembered after years of silence, but it grew louder with each passing moment. For the first time in decades, the villagers weren't just surviving—they were alive.
But not everyone shared the joy.
Tara watched as Elder Emrick strode away from the square, his jaw tight and his shoulders stiff. It didn't take a mind reader to understand his thoughts. He was losing control of the village, and he wouldn't let it go without a fight.
"Let him stew," Tara muttered under her breath, clutching the jester's mask tightly.
The mask pulsed faintly in her hands, warm and alive. The hum she'd felt before was stronger now, almost like a heartbeat. Ludicar's presence was with her, subtle but undeniable.
"Enjoying the show, Ludicar?" she whispered.
A faint chuckle echoed in her mind. "Immensely. But beware, my dear. The greatest battles aren't fought in the square—they're fought in the soul."
Before Tara could ask what he meant, the voice faded, leaving her with a chill she couldn't quite shake.
---
By the next morning, Harrowhill was divided.
In the market square, a small crowd had gathered around Ila and Ryn, who were openly defending Tara's actions.
"She's right," Ila said, her voice trembling with passion. "We've forgotten how to live! What's the point of surviving if we're too afraid to feel joy?"
"And look what's happening already," Ryn added. "People are talking, laughing, coming together. It's what we've needed for years."
But Merrick stood across from them, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "This is dangerous," he growled. "You're letting a child play with forces she doesn't understand. Laughter won't protect us from storms. It won't keep us fed or warm."
"It'll keep us human!" Ila shot back, her cheeks flushed.
The crowd murmured, some nodding in agreement, others shaking their heads. Tara stood on the edge of the gathering, feeling the weight of their words. This wasn't just about her anymore—it was about the village.
She glanced toward the elder's hall, where Emrick was surely plotting his next move.
---
That evening, Tara found herself back in the woods, the mask cradled in her lap. She sat beneath the ancient oak, its gnarled branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The forest was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves.
"Ludicar," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The mask shimmered, and a faint laugh echoed around her. "You called, my dear?"
"I don't know what to do," she admitted. "The village is divided. Emrick won't listen. And I... I'm just one person."
"Ah, but you're not just anyone," Ludicar said. "You're the one who dared to bring laughter to a silent world. That takes courage—and wit."
"Courage isn't enough," Tara said. "What if I fail? What if I make things worse?"
There was a pause, then Ludicar spoke again, his tone softer. "Do you know why jokes are powerful, Tara?"
She shook her head.
"Because they reveal the truth," he said. "The perfect jest isn't just funny—it's a mirror. It shows people who they really are, even if they're afraid to see it."
Tara frowned, the weight of his words settling over her. "But how do I find that truth? How do I make them see?"
"That," Ludicar said, his voice fading, "is for you to discover."
The forest grew silent once more, leaving Tara alone with her thoughts.
---
The next day, the tension in the village reached its breaking point.
Elder Emrick called another meeting in the square, his face grim and his tone sharp. "This chaos must end," he declared. "Tara's antics have done nothing but sow division and unrest. We cannot allow this to continue."
Tara stepped forward, her heart pounding. "I've only brought what we've lost, Elder. You're the one sowing division by clinging to fear."
The crowd gasped, but Tara didn't back down. She held up the jester's mask, its iridescent surface catching the light.
"This mask isn't a curse," she said, her voice steady. "It's a reminder. A reminder of who we were before the storms—before fear took over."
Emrick's eyes narrowed. "And what happens when your 'laughter' brings the storms back, Tara? What happens when your chaos destroys us all?"
Tara hesitated, but then a memory came to her—the story of the rooster, and Ludicar's words about truth.
"What destroyed us," she said slowly, "wasn't the storms. It was how we reacted to them. We let fear silence us, divide us. We stopped trusting each other. That's what will destroy us—not laughter, but fear."
The crowd murmured, their expressions shifting. Some nodded, their eyes bright with understanding. Others still looked uncertain.
Emrick's face darkened. "You think a jest can fix all that?"
"No," Tara admitted. "But it can start the healing."
She stepped onto the platform, placing the mask over her face. The world shifted, colors sharpening and sounds deepening. A surge of energy filled her, and she began to perform.
She mimicked the storms, flailing her arms and stomping her feet, then pretended to cower in fear, curling into a ball. "Oh no, the big bad storm is here! Quick, everyone, hide under your beds!"
The crowd chuckled, but she wasn't done.
Then she stood, puffing out her chest and marching in place. "No, wait! Let's ban laughter instead! That'll definitely stop the rain!"
The laughter grew louder, more genuine. Even Merrick cracked a grin.
But Tara's eyes were on Emrick. The elder's face was stony, his fists clenched.
As the laughter swelled, Emrick turned and stormed away, disappearing into the elder's hall.
Tara removed the mask, her heart racing. She had won over the crowd, but she knew the real battle was far from over.
As the villagers dispersed, chatting and smiling, Tara stared at the elder's hall, a sense of foreboding settling over her.
The storm wasn't gone. It had just shifted—and its fury was building.